


Maybe

by pluckybucky



Series: Another Time, Another World [4]
Category: Doom Patrol (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dream Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Porn With Plot, Trans Larry Trainor, yeehaw motherfuckers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 12:10:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18571204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluckybucky/pseuds/pluckybucky
Summary: flesh against metal, forever ruined, but perfect.





	Maybe

**Author's Note:**

> shout out to the bastards in the discord server

Larry has a hard time getting off. 

 

It’s not very poetic, it’s annoying.

 

Years in solitude, locked behind metal walls and special made bandages, there’s a tightness in Larry’s gut that remains forever. He’s definitely tried to relieve stress, in the shower, trying to touch himself with hands that should be dead and numb, rotting and rotting, but don’t, grunting in irritation at never being able to finish, and then he slumps himself against his bed, chest rising, chest falling, staring, staring, staring forever at the metal ceiling in a bed too small for him, hands above his head, tangled in the bed sheets. Skin burns, yet he’s used to it, he tries, and he tries, all contained in metal walls, caving more and more in, solitude, loneliness, terrified yet longing for touch, skin unrepairable, unwanted. 

 

And Cliff misses sex.

 

Not having a dick, or any working organs except for one, it sucks. He can’t feel, never feeling, metal not even close to skin. He can’t feel, and it fucking sucks. 

 

So, lusting, wanting, two people, needing, wanting, they try.

 

Larry never removes his clothes, and Cliff’s clothes provide cushion, safety from the jagged metal edges and annoying bolts. 

 

Sometimes, Larry’ll try to get himself off on Cliff’s body. A strange set of words put together, frustrating and trying, Larry will grind himself down against Cliff’s thigh, layers upon layers of clothes hot and burning, yet Larry doesn’t dare shrug anything off. 

 

Cliff can’t feel, so he tries to help as best as he can, awkward, robotic hands hold Larry’s hips, red eyes watching.

 

“So neither of us can get off?” Cliff eventually asks, both having given up, Cliff holds Larry in Larry’s small, small bed, and Larry stares into nothing. Without a response, Cliff sighs. “It’s fine,” 

 

And in another time, things change.

 

Cliff wraps his hands around Larry’s upper arms, and he pushes.

 

“Let me,” Cliff says.

 

Larry’s chest burns baby blue, ruined metal and goggles reflecting the light faintly, and as Larry’s leg hits the bed, and Cliff’s eyes drift down to Larry’s chest, and something passes through Larry, through Cliff, blackness obscures everything for the moment, and both of them fall forwards, Larry landing on his back, while Cliff falls onto Larry before rolling off to the side, eyes empty, jaw slacked. 

 

And then, lips against lips, Larry Trainor pulls away, throwing his head back, and Cliff Steele pushes himself back against the truck bed, eyes wide, eyes blue. 

 

“Fuck,” Cliff’s the first to speak, and he feels his heartbeat in his ears. Heartbeat. His hand goes to his shirt, to his chest, and his eyes only go wider. “Fuck,” 

 

Larry sits up, hand on the side panel of the blue truck, head hung low. “Jesus Christ,” He croaks, letting his head fall back, eyes on the sky. “Really? You bring Cliff into my fucking head?” He’s speaking to the air, and Cliff’s busy running his fingers through his hair.

 

“Did,” Cliff sighs, “Did that- uh- negative spirit thing do this?” 

 

Larry runs his hand over his face, bewildered and annoyed. “Yeah, yeah, it did.”

 

Larry’s wearing something he would wear long ago, brown leather jacket unzipped revealing a flannel checkered yellow and blue, unbuttoned enough to reveal the tank top hugging his body. Cliff blinks, and he’s staring up at Larry’s face, the first time he’s seen Larry without the burns, or scars, or anything, and Cliff’s breathless. Larry’s dark brown hair is swept back, a few strands are in his face, jaw square and tense, lips parted only slightly, cheekbones pronounced.

 

“So you’re the handsome one, huh?” Cliff asks. Larry sets his eyes on Cliff, and really looks at him.

 

Face no longer distorted by the static of television, Larry looks at Cliff, still wrapped in his usual garb, more baggy around him now. Cliff’s eyes no longer piercing and red, now soft and pale blue. He looks the same as he did on the TV, but as Larry continues looking down at him, he notes that Cliff appears a little more tired. His features are soft, easy on the eyes. His hair’s still long, and disheveled, and his chest is rising and falling, rising and falling, rising and falling.

 

“What?” Larry asks, head tilting only slightly.

 

Cliff touches Larry’s thigh, giving it a pat, and Larry realizes he’s sitting on top of Cliff. He rolls to the side, now next to Cliff. With his freedom, Cliff pushes himself up, sitting with one knee up to his chest to rest his arm on.

 

“I, we, we’re normal, Larry,” Cliff finally says. “Whatever the fuck that thing did, I think I’m okay with it,” 

 

Larry gives him a strange look. “It’s not real, though,” He states.

 

“Maybe, but do I care?” Cliff rests his head against the truck, sighing. “I can feel, Lar.” 

 

Larry stares for a moment, hand twitching closer to Cliff’s. “So, what are you going to do about it?” 

 

Cliff looks confused for a moment, but then he understands. He rolls to the side, climbing up onto Larry, and he slowly brings his hands to Larry’s face, who looks up at Cliff with a strange stare, heavy-lidded and nostrils flared, and as Cliff cups Larry’s face, thumb running over an unruined cheek, he leans forward, noses brushing against each other, Cliff has Larry trapped underneath him, legs against Larry’s hips. Cliff holds Larry’s face so tenderly, and he looks into his eyes.

 

“‘What am I going to do about it’? No offence, Larry, but you ask real stupid questions,” Cliff says, voice quiet as he pulls Larry closer, tilting his head to the side to press his lips against Larry’s in a sweet kind of way, a grunt caught in his throat as Larry grabs the lapels of Cliff’s jacket, opening his mouth only slightly, letting himself melt against Cliff, a sort of fire in him he thought had died a long time ago, now burning brightly in him as he pulls Cliff closer and closer, chest against chest. 

 

Cliff notices Larry’s lips are only slightly chapped, and Cliff can smell cheap cologne and hair gel, nothing special for anybody else, but to Cliff is a perfect kind of scent. Cliff smells like leather, and tastes like bad whiskey, and Larry feels like drowning.

 

Cliff pulls Larry up, mouth still against mouth as he grabs for Larry’s jacket, sliding it off without a second thought as Larry shimmies his arms out of the sleeves, allowing freedom, and as Cliff throws it aside, pulling away slightly to catch the breath he finally has, Larry throws his arms around Cliff’s neck.

 

The kiss only deepens, tongues against each other, Larry gripping Cliff’s jacket for dear life as Cliff continues on, noses bumping against each other as Cliff continues holding Larry’s face in his hands, palms rough from years of use, like sand. 

 

Cliff’s hands drift down, grazing Larry’s neck gently, hands on his shoulders, then on his chest, feeling a heartbeat powerful enough to shake the earth, Cliff runs his fingers down Larry’s chest, then, shaking hands fumble around with the buttons of Larry’s shirt. Cliff pulls his mouth off of Larry’s, taking a long needed inhale, mouth hanging open, while Larry pants, eyes blown wide open. Cliff takes a glance at Larry’s collarbone, his neck.

 

“I,” Larry tries to speak, “I uh, ah,” He sharply inhales through his nose, raising his head up, “Ah,” 

 

Cliff’s lips are against Larry’s neck now, soft and caring. 

 

“Just relax, Lar,” Cliff mumbles against Larry’s neck. “Just relax,” 

 

“Ah,” Larry sings, loud and clear, just as Cliff bites into his neck, leaving a mark that won't exist in the outside world, dragging his tongue over the mark, lips against Larry’s adam apple, and Larry’s singing.

 

“Jesus, Lar,” Cliff mutters, and Larry can feel Cliff smirk against him. “I haven’t even done anything and you’re squealing,” 

 

“Fuck,” Larry breathlessly tries to say, “Fuck you,” Words that should be like a knife, hold no malice at all, and Cliff laughs. 

 

“I think I’m the one who’s gonna do that,” 

 

“Ha.” Larry’s voice is tone-dry

 

Cliff’s forgotten entirely about unbuttoning Larry’s shirt.

 

Larry feels alive again, and Cliff wonders if in the real world, his body is overheating. 

 

“You know,” Cliff said, voice raspy, “I think you’re hot, here and out there,” 

 

Larry shuts his eyes, “You already have me under you, Cliff, you don’t have to, ah, flatter me,”

 

Cliff begins to shrug off his own coat, letting it fall behind them, and Larry lets his eyes flutter back open, and he swallows his voice. 

 

Cliff’s arms are large, and Larry really likes that. 

 

Cliff’s back against Larry, one hand on Larry’s side, the other on his back. “It ain’t flattery, babe, I mean it,” 

 

Larry rolls his eyes before letting them slide back shut. “Don’t tell me you have a zombie fetish or something,” Hearing that, Cliff laughs real ugly like. 

 

“What?” He tries to say in between laughs, “No,” 

 

“Then,” Larry mumbles, “Elaborate, because I really hate the image in my head right now.”

 

“That’s gross. You ruin moods, Larry.” Cliff tries to recollect himself after that mood killer. He runs his fingers through his hair. “I mean, I’ve always thought you were hot. I like your voice.”

 

“My voice?”

 

“Shit, I’m not good at words. I mean, I like you for you, not uh, not just for this old you, though you are really, really hot right now. That’s not my point.” Cliff’s rambling now.

 

Larry watches Cliff hang his head low, embarrassed and unable to speak clearly.

 

“Then,” Larry asks, “What is your point?” 

 

“I,” Cliff begins, placing a hand on Larry’s hip. “I really care about you, and I don’t want you to think, that uh, that I only like you like this. I think you’re really good looking, in the real world, and here.” 

 

Larry stares at him, before slowly reaching out, putting a finger over Cliff’s mouth, then adjusting the hand to cup Cliff’s cheek. “Just shut up, Cliff, and kiss me,” 

 

“I can do that,” Cliff says, bluster returning as he leans back in, pressing himself against Larry, lips on lips, eyes shutting tightly.

 

Cliff rolls both of them over, letting Larry sit on top of Cliff, tongue twisting with tongue, arms wrapped around each other tightly, brows knitted tight, eyes squinted shut, and Cliff lets his hands wander.

 

When Cliff’s hands drift back to Larry’s chest, to the buttons of his shirt, something in Larry freezes.

 

“Cliff,” He says, pulling away, “Wait,” 

 

Cliff holds himself up with his elbows, a concerned look on his face. “You alright, Lar?” 

 

“I,” Larry sputters, hands going to the buttons of his shirt, fumbling with them. “I’m trans, Cliff, are you okay with that?” 

 

Cogs turn in Cliff’s head.

 

Oh.

 

“Oh,” Cliff says, a hand on Larry’s hip. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

 

“You,” Larry says, confused, “You’re fine with that?”

 

“Yeah, Larry,” Cliff says, “What about you? Are you,” His hand grips Larry’s hip a little tighter, “Are you okay with going further?”

 

Larry inhales deeply, head falling forward, exhaling, and nodding. “Yes,” He says, “Please,” 

 

And with that, Cliff continues.

 

Hands unbutton Larry’s flannel slowly, each button exposing a little more of Larry, unravelling him like a bunch of bandages, Cliff takes his sweet time, pressing kisses lower and lower Larry’s chest until the final button comes loose, and Larry shrugs the shirt off.

 

Cliff thinks Larry is very handsome. 

 

He’s strong, he was in the air force, right? It shows. It definitely shows. 

 

Skin is unruined, but just as perfect, and Cliff looks at every small blemish on Larry’s shoulder, faint freckles, moles, still human. 

 

Cliff tucks his fingers under the brim of Larry’s tank top, grazing against Larry’s stomach, and Larry twitches, inhaling sharply. Cliff lifts it over his head, and throws it aside. 

 

Larry looks at himself, concerned, mouth open, jaw tense. “That’s new,” 

 

To Cliff, this is new, and to Larry, this is new, all for different reasons. 

 

This is a perfect world, a dream connected, and in this perfect world, Larry is what he wants to be.

 

Cliff thinks Larry is very handsome, always handsome, always perfect.

 

Cliff begins to tug off his own shirt, and when it comes off, Larry’s left staring. He’s soft around the edges, heavy-set, perfect, strong, hair along his chest and trailing down his stomach, down is naval. Larry’s throat is dry. 

 

And then, Cliff grinds himself against Larry, and Larry gasps. That’s new, too, definitely new. 

 

Cliff is burning, skin on fire, he throws Larry onto his back, back onto the discarded clothes for cushion, hovering over him, hands on wrists. Eyes drift downwards, and Cliff opens his mouth.

 

“So, uh, I wanna know what I’m working with, Lar,” He says.

 

“It’s a dream,” Larry utters, “In this dream, I have a dick, I guess,” 

 

“Alright,” Cliff says, “Just let me take care of you,”

 

Larry inhales, rolling his head and eyes back as Cliff presses his lips to Larry’s chest, slow and slower, lower and lower, trailing further down. 

 

In any other world, Cliff fucks his problems away, quick and fast, rough and sloppy, he fucks his problems away. No foreplay, no romance, he cuts to the chase, slamming into his partner with wild abandon.

 

But in this world, Cliff’s slow, delicate, tender, lips against Larry’s naval, threatening closer and closer to his belt. Larry holds himself up with an elbow, the other hand tangled in Cliff’s hair, breathing heavier and heavier, unraveling at the seams as Cliff fumbles with his belt.

 

It’s been too long, so long, an eternity away from this, feeling, touching, gasping, aching, both of them haven’t felt this in so long, so fucking long. Cliff undoes Larry’s belt, sliding it off carelessly, and Larry makes a funny kind of sound, a groan and whimper mixed together, biting his lip gently. 

 

Cliff thinks, remembers memories that aren’t through a television screen, in this moment, everything he remembers, it’s real, no coding, no batteries, no wires tangled in his brain, Cliff remembers. He remembers being young, fucking for fun, for cheap love, he remembers the taste of some guy’s dick in his mouth, he doesn’t even remember the name, pleasuring the guy behind a gas station just for fun, no heart attached, no heart, no heart. The guy’s fingers tangling in long brown hair, tugging, pulling, whimpering and breathing, chest rising and falling, holding his shirt up, pants pulled down to his knees, and Cliff’s still fully clothed, a single golden earring without a partner in his ear, jeans ripped enough to scuff his knees against the concrete floor, dim light, dim light, dim light, flicker flicker, flicker little light, and the guy finishes fast, nearly gagging Cliff, cheap love, cheap love, ‘I love you,’ ‘I don’t love you,’ Cliff can’t remember the guy’s name, and he sucked the guy’s dick. Is that fucked up? Cliff doesn’t know. The guy gave him a 20 dollar bill. ‘Thanks for sucking me off,’ He said, and Cliff thought, thinks, it’s funny, for the guy to say that. No feelings, only for fun, flicker flicker light, and the guy is gone, and Cliff never sees him again.

 

This isn’t that.

 

Cliff will remember Larry’s name.

 

This isn’t just for fun, for pleasure, Cliff kisses Larry’s chest, Larry’s heart, because he loves Larry. No dim light, flickering a sick yellow, no concrete digging into his knees like razors, Cliff has the sun on his back, in a truck that doesn’t exist, with the man that does.

 

With his fingers digging into Cliff’s hair, Larry’s head is against Cliff’s jacket as a pillow, and for a moment, he’s somewhere else.

 

On retrospect, Larry Trainor and John Bowers didn’t go very far. It’s not very interesting, in hindsight, but back then, it was electric.

 

Kissing, grinding, feeling, all behind locked doors and hushed whispers. John Bowers was Larry’s only. 

 

John Bowers is dead now.

 

Cliff Steele is Larry Trainor’s only, now, doing the things Larry was terrified to do so many years ago with reckless abandon.

 

So, Cliff unzips Larry’s pants, hooking his fingers into the belt loops, and slowly slides them off, all the while looking at Larry, and Larry looks at Cliff, holding himself up with his elbows, head hung low, mouth agape, chin nearly grazing his chest.

 

Left only in his boxers, Larry’s unravelled, exposed, more than he has ever been in awhile, eyes are on him, yet shrinking away is far from his thoughts. 

 

Cliff mouths Larry’s front, and there’s a loud gasp in the crisp, summer air.

 

“Please,” Larry says, “Hurry up,” 

 

Cliff raises a brow. “What was that?” 

 

Larry lets himself back down, back now entirely against Cliff’s jacket. “Asshole,” He groans. 

 

“I love you too, babe,” Cliff replies.

 

Hands grasp Larry’s boxers and tug them off fast, and Larry shuts his eyes, a sharp breath as he’s now completely exposed, and he’s burning a little less hotter. When a few seconds go by, he grows impatient. 

 

“Cliff,” He croaks, “Please,” 

 

Chest rising, chest falling, chest rising, chest rising.

 

His stomach twitches slightly when a breeze passes by.

 

His eyes are shut gently, lips parted, brow furrowed, chest rising, chest falling.

 

Heartbeat going, bump, bump, bump, both their hearts beat, one fast, the other steady, hard, hard like Cliff was left behind that gas station, chest rising, chest falling, with each sharp inhale, when his chest is low, Cliff can see the heartbeat, bump, bump, bump.

 

And, it’s beautiful. 

 

Larry’s in the palm of Cliff’s hand, literally, figuratively, it doesn’t matter. Larry gasps, eyes open wide as Cliff drags his tongue over the underside of his cock, from the base, to the tip, slow and agonizing, heartbeat fast, chest rising, chest falling.

 

“Fuck,” Larry groans, fingers in Cliff’s hair, he tugs only slightly. “Cliff,” 

 

Salt, sweat, sweat on the tongue, hand wrapped around Larry, sweet sighs leaving Larry’s lips, nostrils flared, eyes on Cliff, all eyes on Cliff. He swirls his tongue over the tip, hand up and down, up and down, pulling, pushing, groaning, gasping, mouth finally enveloping the tip, lower, lower, sweat, salt, chest rising, chest falling, Larry’s eyes squeeze together tight, tighter, teeth together, grinding teeth, grinding against Cliff. Fingers tangled in brown hair, disheveled, Larry bucks his hips forward, only slightly, then Cliff lets go, hands going to his hips, holding him down, mouth going further, further, Larry’s louder now, mouth opening, closing, sweat, hot, heat, burning. 

 

Without the ability to buck forwards, Larry pushes down, hand in Cliff’s hair, he pushes Cliff down, further to the hilt, moaning louder, louder, head thrown back, and Cliff doesn’t gag, he groans, vibrations sending Larry melting, threatening to fall, threatening to shatter, as Cliff hollows his cheeks, tongue flat on the underside. Legs over Cliff’s shoulders, fingers digging into old leather, mouth open, throat exposed, voice raw, singing. 

 

Cliff never expected Larry to be so loud, but he thinks he likes it, music to his ears. 

 

Up and down, up and down, breathing through the nose, faster and faster, faster and faster. 

 

Larry forces his eyes open, and holds himself up with his arm, as his head falls forward, his hair follows, sticking to his forehead, messy, he looks at Cliff, eyes foggy, and sees Cliff staring back at him, mouth around his cock, spit soaking the skin, dripping onto the balls, Larry spreads his legs a little more, impatient, wheezing, chest rising, chest falling, Cliff’s too slow, agonizing torture, he’s too slow. When Cliff’s hands slide from Larry’s hips, open palms against the bed of the truck, Larry makes a fist in Cliff’s hair, and bucks his hips again, and again, fucking Cliff’s mouth with high pitched groans, chest rising, chest falling. 

 

“Fuck,” Larry moans, loud, louder, “Please,” He sings.

 

Thrusts shallow and quick, whining growing and growing, Cliff’s eyes squeeze shut, and he reaches out, fingers grazing against the underside, palming Larry’s balls, and Larry throws his head back. 

 

“Cliff,” Larry tries to say, slurring his words as he breathes heavy and heavier, “Cliff, I’m gonna,” voice breathless, wheezy, throat dry and burning. 

 

So, Cliff guides his hands back to Larry’s hips, fingernails leaving crescent shapes like countless moons in the sky, he can see Larry’s desperate pleas, whining, gasping. 

 

He dips down, cheeks hollow, tongue against the underside, down to the hilt, groaning deeply, and does it again, and again, ruthless, and Larry moans, eyes shut, fingers twisting, pulling, tugging on Cliff’s hair, and he shatters.

 

“Cliff,” He says, “Oh, God,” 

 

A groan turns into a shout, he bucks his hips forward, fingers dig into whatever they can, and Cliff sucks, moaning into the feeling, vibrations, vibrating.

 

“Oh, God, Ah,” Larry repeats, like a mantra, “Ah, ah, ah,”

 

Static fills Larry’s eyes, electricity surging through him, he’s shattering, and for the moment, this isn’t a dream. It’s the real world, and Cliff and Larry are unruined. In the moment, Larry believes this will last forever, and he lets go, and he lets himself drown, chest rising, chest falling, dim light, flicker flicker, lights behind his eyelids.

 

Cliff swallows, for the most part, before pulling away entirely, spit coating his chin, the corners of his mouth, and Larry finishes, against Cliff’s face. 

 

Chest up, chest down, chest up, chest down, bump, bump, bump, bump, Larry slumps back, panting. 

 

“Sorry,” He says, voice empty, throat sore.

 

Cliff wipes his mouth. “Ah, ‘s fine,” He says, voice just as destroyed. He reaches for his t-shirt, a makeshift towel as he wipes his face off. So, when he pulls the cloth back, he makes a funny face. “Gross.” And he throws it aside.

 

There’s some instinct in Cliff, years of cheap, shitty motels, partners just there for a quick shag, an instinct that tells Cliff it’s over now, because Larry’s finished, to light a cigarette and never speak to him again. For some reason, deep down, Cliff is terrified that Larry’s finished with him. 

 

He’s not used to this.

 

So, when Cliff sits up, arms resting on his knees, there’s a shock, eyes wide for a second as Larry reaches out, palm against Cliff’s cheek. 

 

“Hey,” Larry mumbles, pulling Cliff close, “C’mere,” 

 

He’s turning Cliff around, and Cliff shuts his eyes, following Larry as Larry brings himself back down. Cliff presses his mouth against Larry, chaste and long, hand on Larry’s thigh, and he’s back on top of Larry, and there’s a different mood in the air. ‘Reject me,’ Cliff wants to tell Larry, ‘I’m nothing special,’ years and years of disinterest in Cliff as a person from romantic, sexual partners, years and years of giving and giving, fucking and fucking, he is terrified of rejection, so he wants to be rejected. 

 

It’s rare, Cliff admits, for somebody to pursue him.

 

Years and years of disinterest in Cliff as a person, it digs its teeth into Cliff and doesn’t let go.

 

So, as Cliff bumps noses against Larry’s, one hand on Larry’s hip, the other against the truck bed to hold himself up, and he expects to be rejected. ‘Thanks for sucking me off,’ Cliff remembers before being given 20 dollars. He is scared.

 

‘I want you,’ He hears Larry say in his head, a memory from another time, so genuine in Larry’s voice, but told to him so many times before, so many faces, he can’t remember their names, he remembers sinking his dick into them, fast, quick, ‘Yes, please,’ They say, and Cliff can’t remember their names. 

 

All for fun, no feelings, Cliff likes fun, doesn’t he? Why is he scared to think it’ll happen again, another face to be forgotten, the taste of Larry’s cock being the only thing he’ll be able to remember.

 

He doesn’t want this to happen again, and there’s some part of machinery, coding, wires tangled with unreal organs, wires, cords, twisted and tangled into the shape of a heart, mangled and unreal, beating to the tune of television static, chest bolted in place, unable to rise, unable to fall, metal, ruined, flesh, unreal, it tells him it won’t happen again.

 

Larry fumbles around with Cliff’s belt, breath finally even, hair still stuck to his forehead. Cliff gently pushes Larry’s hands away. “I got it,” He says. Larry watches, mouth open, eyes on Cliff’s face as Cliff undoes his belt, sliding it out from every belt loop slowly, and tossing it aside. 

 

Years of being the big brute, the idiot, the jock, expected to be in control, so when somebody offers to take charge, and Cliff doesn’t know how to respond.

 

So, he tells Larry, “Let me take care of you,” Because that’s all he knows to do, because he’s the big brute, the idiot, the jock, all programming, no feelings, only fun, never feelings, because robots can’t feel. 

 

Kicking off his jeans ripped at the knees, and Cliff’s left in his boxers. He hovers over Larry, and unable to say the right words, he simply speaks. “Do you,” He stutters, “Uh, have anything?” 

 

Larry blinks, cogs turning, and turns his head. “Jacket pocket, the one on left, I think,” 

 

Cliff nods and reaches over, grabbing the dusty brown leather jacket, and pulling it closer. It’s cool in his hand, as he reaches into the wrong pocket, then the right pocket, the jacket falls back to the pile, bottle in hand.

 

“Uh,” Cliff says, nudging Larry’s hip with his knee. “Turn over,” 

 

So, without a second thought, Larry rolls over onto his stomach, a cheap, ripped leather jacket as a pillow. Folding his arms over the other, shutting his eyes and resting his forehead down, a deep exhale leaving his lips. 

 

Cliff flicks the cap open, old memories flooding back as he squeezes the contents onto his fingers, index, middle, ring, the lube’s wet. Old memories keep knocking, banging, filling his nostrils like cheap smoke, cheap smoke from a long abandoned ashtray, all the people he can’t remember. ‘Do you want to see each other again?’ He once asked somebody, a woman, after he fucked her into the mattress, he looks at her with a smile, and asks, ‘Do you want to see each other again?’ And she looks at him, perplexed, a look that destroys Cliff, and she says ‘No,’ and maybe Cliff was naive, maybe he still is, hoping, hoping, still hoping, always hoping. Desperate to love, desperate to please, scared to be rejected, Cliff sets his mind on fire, nothing but coding, wires, cogs turning and turning, artificial feelings, because robots can’t feel, and Cliff doesn’t want to feel right now.

 

“I love you,” He says, so nonchalantly, he says it, voice gentle, voice kind, bottle set aside, hand now on the small of Larry’s back, he says “I love you,” and wants it to feel something, feel nothing, chest rising, chest falling, all for a breath he doesn’t need. 

 

‘I love you’ is a word said only behind closed doors, hushed whispers, and Larry doesn’t dare speak it in the real world, Cliff’s voice is nonchalant, and Larry’s eyes are squeezed shut. “Cliff,” He says, “Just hurry, please,” 

 

Red light, green light, red light, green light, street lights in a dark street, a cheap motel, cheap smoke, cheap love, everything fake, Cliff said ‘Do you want to see each other again?’ And he watches a face twist, twist, twist, and say ‘No,’  

 

Cliff presses a kiss to the top of Larry’s head, and he presses a finger in, eyes squeezing tighter, a sharp inhale, a shudder. Working a finger deeper, stretching more and more, burning, heat, something Larry’s never felt before, and Cliff only has one finger in him and he’s stuttering, whimpering, a single finger deep enough, pulled back, another finger, two, deeper, deeper, Cliff presses a kiss so tender and loving to Larry’s back, holding onto this closeness forever, letting it last for an eternity. A third finger, digging deeper and deeper, Larry digs his teeth into his arm, muffled groans, fingers deeper, deeper. 

 

An eternity passes by, and Cliff pulls back, dragging a long whine out from Larry. He wipes his fingers off against the side of his leg in a not very formal way, Larry twitches, twitching, heavy breathes escaping.

 

Cliff tugs his boxers off, not caring where they go, one hand around himself, the other on Larry’s back, and he pushes in, groaning, groaning, whining, he pushes deeper, and it’s stinging, it’s dull, it’s deeper, deeper, down to the hilt, Cliff lets himself fall against Larry, stomach against back, settling. 

 

“Fuck,” Larry mumbles under his breath, deep and low, and Cliff’s hands are around Larry’s hips, holding, settling. “Cliff,” 

 

Cliff pulls back, hissing, and slams back against Larry, hands tight around Larry, growing tighter, tighter, he pulls back, pulling, then pushing, wild abandon, he’s slamming into Larry, grunting and gasping with each shove, harder, and harder, body on fire, mouth wide open, brown hair falling forward, strands sticking to the side of his face, nostrils flared, pounding into Larry, louder, louder with each shove, louder and louder, harder and harder, giving Larry what he wants, what every person Cliff can’t remember wants, fucking into him harder and harder, eyes heavy-lidded, fucking him into a cheap motel bed, everything rotten, everything bad, bad alcohol in his system, bad smoke. He has to remember, he’s not in a dark motel room. He opens his eyes, and it’s not a dark motel room. He falls against Larry, open mouthed kisses against Larry’s spine, harder, harder, harder.

 

“Cliff,” Larry moans, loud and louder, “Harder,” 

 

A word drilled into Cliff’s mind, asked of him by everyone he pinned and pounded into, ‘harder,’ they ask, and Cliff delivers. 

 

This time is no different. He goes harder through gritted teeth, a hand reaching out and tangling itself in Larry’s sweaty hair, pulling his head back, throat exposed, fucking harder, and harder, and harder, “Fuck,” Larry groans, “Yes,”

 

“I’ve got you,” Cliff growls, “Don’t worry,” 

 

The hand not tangled up in hair drifts down, dragging itself against Larry’s stomach, around his cock, pumping, pumping faster, and faster, and Larry sees static. He’s going faster, faster, Larry’s eyes squeeze shut, mouth opening wide, “Cliff,” He sings, voice raw, “Cliff,” 

 

Fuck the pain away, Cliff always told himself, fuck away the pain, words he can never say trapped in his throat, empty them out through each thrust, harder, harder, slamming against Larry until Larry’s screaming his name. 

 

“Don’t stop,” Larry begs, “I’m close,” 

 

Cliff continues on, fucking Larry deeper and deeper into the truck bed, against Cliff’s ripped leather jacket, surrounded by discarded clothes, surrounded by a world that doesn’t exist. 

 

He’s twisting, pulling, stroking Larry’s cock, teeth grazing against Larry’s spine, pounding into him until he’s a complete fucking mess, because Cliff’s good at it, because it’s all he can do.

 

“I love you,” Larry says, and Cliff barely catches it. 

 

Hand tangled in Larry’s hair, Cliff pushes Larry’s head down, lifting his hips and slamming into Larry in a way that makes Larry yell, twisting, stroking Larry’s cock further and further. 

 

It’s the heat of the moment, Cliff tells himself. 

 

Cliff’s the first to fall, spilling into Larry with a loud grunt, forehead pressed against Larry’s back, slamming into Larry, bruising, and then Larry finishes, spattering against Cliff’s hand, a long, long whine ripping through his throat, chest rising, chest falling. It’s electric, static, static from the television, shocking, feeling, still feeling, still human, never human, not human, unreal, real, flesh, metal, bandages.

 

Larry throws his head forward, a loud gasp against a small bed. His hand goes to his heart, bump, bump, bump, fast and faster. 

 

Cliff takes a second to wake up, black eyes, empty eyes, empty head, and Cliff wakes up, blinking, red eyes glowing. He doesn’t move. 

 

“So, uh,” Cliff says, no throat to sting, no heart to beat, “Dream sex, huh?” 

 

Larry looks at him, still breathing heavily, unexpressive through the goggles. 

 

Cliff can’t feel the bed underneath him, but he remembers feeling, like some kind of phantom touch left in his head, the only thing he has. He expects Larry to get up, to leave the room, get on with his life. 

 

Larry nearly shakes underneath all his clothes, jacket still wrapped around him, turtleneck hugging him lovingly, boots tied tightly, layers that should be on fire, and Larry’s shivering.

 

Cliff watches as Larry curls into himself, curling into Cliff, a gloved hand reaching, wrapping itself around Cliff’s broad chest, Larry’s curling smaller, and smaller, never speaking. 

 

Cliff watches this, Larry curling, knees against chest, shivering, and he can’t look concerned. He can’t smile, can’t frown, can’t cry, all he can do is wrap his arms around Larry, holding him tightly, neither dare speak. 

 

Until they do speak.

 

“I love you, Lar,” Cliff says, voice so quiet, echoing against the hollow metal of Cliff’s skull, he says it, and realizes Larry is asleep again. 

 

Cliff, for a second, forgets he is a robot, and he leans forward and presses lips that can’t pucker against the top of Larry’s bandaged head.

 

Cliff doesn’t sleep. He watches the ceiling, a pretty kind of metal, silver, and he looks at his hand, placed around Larry’s shoulder, a ruined bronze, ugly and scratchy, he looks back up, and blinks, because that’s all he can do now. He hasn’t been rejected, no strange, funny looks, yet he’s still terrified, and he doesn’t know why. 

 

He’s in love, and that terrifies him deeply.

 

Larry still dreams, even without the negative spirit’s assistance, Larry still dreams. It’s in a world that doesn’t exist, screaming, hurting, crying, it’s a world that doesn’t exist, but is all too real. Larry looks real, hands undamaged, and Cliff stares at him, unexpressive, yet human, always human, eyes black, iris red, he stares, ‘Say you love me,’ He asks, brow knitted together, he says ‘Say you love me,’ And Larry can’t speak, choking, choking, gasping on his words like a rotten piece of food lodged in his throat, he’s choking, and he can’t speak, can’t breathe, ‘Say you love me, please,’ Cliff begs, face inexpressive, he begs, and Larry chokes, and he can’t say it, he needs to say it, he tries, choking, forcing the words out, he can’t stop, and Cliff ceases to exist, because Larry can’t say the words he needs to say. Larry curls in, fetal position, clinging to himself, still on fire, still the gaslighting piece of shit, watching everyone burn around him, because he chokes on words like a rotten piece of food, forever lodged in his throat, forever ruined, forever a ghost, forever ghosting, forever ghosting, forever gone, forever ruined. ‘Let me say I love you,’ He wants to say, ‘I need you, I need you, I love you,’ But Cliff doesn’t exist anymore, because Larry can’t speak, pushing harder, harder, harder, pushing into, pushing away, Cliff pushes in, Larry pushes away, ‘I love you, I love you, I love you,’ Larry chokes, drowns, drowns in his fear, pushing away, pushing away, goodbye John, goodbye Cliff, goodbye Larry, Larry ceases to be, forever choking, forever drowning. 

 

‘Let me say I love you,’ Larry says this time.

 

It’s a dream without the negative spirit’s assistance. ‘Let me say I love you, let me say I love you, because I do,’ Kissing faces that can’t kiss back, because he can, because he wants to, because he needs to. ‘I do love you, I do love you, let me say I love you,’ Reaching out to a man that doesn’t exist in this world anymore, John, Cliff, John, Cliff, still ruined, forever ruined.

 

Arms wrap tightly, tighter, what should be sharp, metallic edges, are solace, arms wrap tightly, tighter, shaking, ‘Wake up, it’s okay, it’s okay,’ 

 

Larry curls in, curling in more and more, until he’s as small as he feels, but the arms remain, pulling him in, pulling him out, pushing, pulling, pushing, pulling, ‘Wake up, it’s okay,’ 

 

A hand grips Cliff’s shirt tighter, tighter, knuckles digging into cloth, and Cliff shakes him again, “Larry, wake up,” He says. 

 

Larry forces himself free, a dark room, a bed too small, metal walls a little bit closer. He’s gasping, gasping harder, and he looks at Cliff, red eyes, threatening to most, comfort to Larry. 

 

Larry wraps an arm around Cliff’s neck, tight, tighter, because he knows it’s okay, and Cliff returns the embrace, hands on Larry’s back, Cliff says, “It’s okay,” 

 

Larry forces himself to believe it, “It’s okay,” but somewhere else, somewhere deeper, he knows it’s not okay, but in this world, in this moment, he lets it be okay. 

 

Cliff holds Larry against his chest, and Larry has his ear against Cliff’s chest, no heartbeat, just a mechanical serenade, cogs turning and turning forever and forever, no heartbeat, but alive.

 

After this, Cliff doesn’t know what to do. 

 

Days and nights pass, and Cliff doesn’t know what to do. Life simply goes on, Cliff shuffles through the manor halls, receiving strange glances from the rest of the household that he doesn’t quite understand, and life goes on. He finds that he avoids Larry now, having filled his purpose, he’s used to this, a one night stand, no time for small-talk, he’s used to this. An act that should’ve brought them closer, instead, drives them further apart, and Cliff doesn’t know why. He can’t be hurt again, so he won’t let it happen, further and further apart he goes, he can’t hurt if he doesn’t try, hope as empty as Cliff’s chest, wires twisted and pulled, mangled and tangled into the shape of a heart that never beats. 

 

Larry watches this happen. 

 

Hand around damaged, cracked flower pots, carrying them around the manor, Larry does what he does best, hide behind a long brown coat and a tall flower, he carries the flowers around the manor in some attempt to redecorate, tending and watering the plants because that’s all he can do. He did it to John, and he’s doing it to Cliff, and his heart is burning. He finds himself thinking of that night a lot, unruined skin against unruined skin, he thinks about it over and over again until he can’t breathe. He wants to be better, be perfect, be the man Cliff deserves, but he can’t do it.

 

The negative spirit isn’t having much fun, either. It’s tearing itself out more often, now, Larry dropping forward, another flower pot shattered, dead flowers all around, surrounded by a grave of dirt. It happens again, and again, and again, so Larry stops carrying his flowers around. It stings, it hurts, clutching his heart tighter and tighter, burning brighter and brighter, baby blue, baby blue. 

 

There’s a particular day, blue sky, bright, bright sun, where Rita sits with Larry, a game of Jenga between them. 

 

“So,” Rita says, looking at the block Larry carefully places on the tower, watching it shake gently. “You and Cliff, huh?” 

 

Larry pulls his hand back from the tower, and rests it on the table, shoulders hunched, head hung low. “Yeah,” 

 

Rita offers a smile, taking one of the pieces from the bottom part of the tower. “Well,” She says, slowly lifting the block to the top, “I’m happy for you,”

 

Larry scoots his seat closer, hands balling into fists, face forever unchanging. “Yeah,” 

 

Just as Rita places her block onto the tower, she offers a concerned glance. “Are things okay between you two? You seem very mopey recently.” 

 

Larry shrugs. “I don’t know. Things are complicated, I guess.” 

 

Rita gestures to Larry that it’s his turn. “Complicated?” She asks, a brow raised, and as Larry lifts his piece to the top of the tower, she opens her mouth. “You were, ah, very loud a couple days ago, and now things are complicated? You two are messes.”

 

The tower falls, and little wooden blocks scatter across the table, and the ground, and Larry’s stiff as a statue. “What?” 

 

Rita gives Larry a strange kind of look, sincerity mixed with embarrassment. “I’m not sure how that worked, and I do not want to know.” 

 

Larry slams his head into the table, a loud groan escaping him. 

 

Rita pats Larry’s hand. “There, there. It’s nothing to be ashamed of! You, uh, love each other? I presume?” 

 

Larry makes a strange kind of sound. 

 

“Yes? No?” Rita and Larry are not having fun. “I’m surprised you still have your voice, if I’m going to be honest.”

 

Larry wishes the metal walls were thicker. He’s going to scream.

 

During all of this, Cliff’s on the other side of the manor, staring at nothing. 

 

“Uh,” Victor says, walking into the room and noticing Cliff’s existence. “Hey, Cliff,” 

 

Cliff doesn’t register Victor’s existence, so Victor coughs into his fist. “You doing alright?” 

 

Cliff turns his head to Vic, fully aware of his existence now. “What?” 

 

“You seem a little busy, staring at nothing, Cliff. Something’s up with you, and uh,” He rubs the back of his neck. “Larry, I bet?” 

 

Cliff stares at him. 

 

“What.” Is all Cliff says. 

 

Vic raises his hands, “I mean, that’s fine! As long as you two are happy, right?” 

 

Cliff keeps staring.

 

“How do you know?” He asks. 

 

“Well,” Vic looks like he wants to die. “Larry’s pretty loud. Jane thought he was dying.” 

 

Cliff is still staring. 

 

“Oh my god.”  Cliff turns back around, and hides his face in his hands. “Oh my god.” 

 

And then Jane walks by the room, and Cliff is going to die. When Jane notices Vic and Cliff in the corner of her eye, she backs up, a bowl of cereal in her hands. “Hey, Cliff.” 

 

Cliff keeps his head in his hands.

 

Vic and Jane exchange a glance. “You doing alright, Cliff?” Jane asks.

 

Vic pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs.

 

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” 

Jane shoves a spoonful of cereal into her mouth, and responds. “How’s Larry?” 

 

“Shut up, Jane,” Cliff says, emphasis on Jane. 

 

“So, things aren’t good?” Vic asks. Jane laughs, and nearly chokes on her food. 

 

“How can he still walk, Cliff?” Jane asks, and Vic tries to hide a laugh with a cough.

 

Cliff lets his hands drop to his sides, “Okay, I don’t need this from either of you,” He turns around and points at them, “I don’t appreciate you getting in my business,” 

 

“Your business?” Jane says, “Larry got into our business when he kept yelling your name.” 

Cliff, feeling cornered, pushes Vic out of his way, “Okay, I’m leaving now,” 

 

And so, Cliff storms out of the room, and Vic looks at Jane, and Jane looks at Vic.

 

“How do you think they did it?” Jane asks.

 

“I don’t need that image in my head, Jane.” Vic responds. 

 

“You think he bought a strapon?"

 

“Jane, please shut up,” 

 

“Do you think-” 

 

“Okay, I’m leaving now.” 

 

So, Jane and Vic part ways, Larry escapes from Rita, and Cliff is storming through the halls.

 

It’s only a matter of time before Larry and Cliff spot each other. 

 

And then they walk past each other, shoulders brushing against the other, not a single word between them. 

 

And then Larry falls over. 

 

Cliff turns around, watching the negative spirit hover over Larry, and Cliff stares at it. 

 

“Jesus,” Cliff says. “Great timing, jackass,” 

 

The negative spirit doesn’t respond. 

 

“You can’t just,” Cliff tries to say, and then the spirit simply floats through the ceiling, “leave him there,” Cliff approaches Larry, passed out, or dead, or whatever, Cliff crouches down to him. “Alright, come on,” Cliff mumbles, scooping Larry up into his arms, limp in his grasp, Cliff knows not to worry, yet holding Larry like some kind of corpse, it’s freaky, and Cliff doesn’t like it. 

 

He carries Larry so carefully, like a groom carrying his newly wed, he carries Larry through the halls, back towards the only place Larry feels truly safe, Cliff pushes the metal doors open, mindful of Larry and not accidentally bashing his head against a doorframe. He pushes a button, is decontaminating the both of them, and then finally returns Larry to his room, feeling smaller and smaller in the metal walls.

 

Gentle and tender, Cliff places Larry on his bed, too small for either of them, and he takes a step back.

 

“There,” He says, “Don’t want people tripping over you while your friend does whatever the fuck,” 

 

He scans the room, small and dark, lonely and pathetic, clothes scattered on the floor. Cliff’s not sure which room is sadder, his or Larry’s. 

 

Cliff watches Larry’s chest rise and fall, so slight he barely notices it. Rise and fall, rise and fall, Cliff sits down on the floor, back against the bed frame, knees up to his chest. He doesn’t want to go back out. He turns his head, and notices Larry’s hand dangling off the bed, so Cliff takes it, running his thumb over Larry’s palm. He’ll wait however long it takes.

 

“Can you even hear when you’re like that?” Cliff asks, voice quiet. 

 

Larry’s sleeping, dreaming, or he’s knocked out, or he’s dead, Cliff doesn’t know. He keeps his hand around Larry’s because he needs to. If Larry can’t hear Cliff, that’s fine to Cliff. He wants to speak, to tell Larry everything on his mind, and whether or not Larry can hear him, Cliff needs to speak.

 

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Larry,” Cliff finally says. “I feel confused, and stupid, and scared, and I don’t know what to do.” His hand squeezes Larry’s a little tighter. “Am I being stupid? Am I hoping for something I shouldn’t?” 

 

Larry’s chest rises and falls, unresponsive, and Cliff sighs.

 

“When I was younger, I was used to one night stands. I’d do my job, and I’d never see that person again, and I taught myself to never get my hopes up, and now, now I don’t know. I’m scared, I’m scared of it happening again, and I don’t know why. I guess I really love you, Larry, and I’m,” If Cliff could, he’d gulp, “I’m scared you don’t feel the same way.” 

 

Robots can’t feel, he thinks, robots can’t feel. 

 

“I want you to love me, and I get scared that you don’t, so I,” He lowers his head, “I guess I set up walls. I don’t want to be alone.” 

 

He hides his face in his hand. 

 

“I’m not used to people wanting to stick around after I fuck them, and I don’t want you to be one of them.” 

 

And so, Cliff waits for Larry, scared it’ll all be in vain.

 

So he waits. 

  
  
  


‘I don’t know what I’m doing, Larry,’ The voice echoes. Larry turns around, he knows that voice, and now he’s staring at Cliff, human, eyes slid shut, head hung low, brown hair down to the neck, brow knitted close, lips tightly pressed together, Larry opens his mouth, yet nothing comes out, he tries to reach out, but he can’t move, ‘I’m scared,’ he says, ‘I’m scared,’ and Larry can’t speak, and he’s trying, he’s trying to scream, wrap his arms around Cliff, ‘It’s okay,’ he wants to say, ‘It’s okay,’ but he can’t, he can’t move, can’t speak, everything is wrong, and Larry can’t do anything, ‘I guess I really love you, Larry,’ Cliff says, and Larry can’t do anything, and everything hurts, and everything stings, his heart is on fire, his eyes squeeze shut, and he can’t cry anymore. ‘I love you,’ He wants to say, ‘I love you,’ but he can’t, he can’t move, he can’t speak, ‘I’m scared you don’t feel the same way,’ Cliff says, and Larry opens his eyes, he feels an empty abyss in his heart, his head, everything empty, he did this, it’s his fault, he’s still the gaslighting piece of shit that brings everyone down with him, everything is burning, Larry is burning, and he can’t cry.

 

It’s happening again.

 

‘I want you to love me,’ Cliff says, and he’s human until he isn’t.

 

Not human, but still perfect to Larry, bronze scratched up with time, but still perfect, face unchanging, yet conveying the words Cliff could never say, and still perfect. 

 

‘I do love you,’ Larry says to nothing. There’s a hand around his. ‘God, I love you,’ 

  
  
  


Cliff notices Larry’s hand twitch around his.

 

The negative spirit returns to where it belongs, in the abyss of Larry’s heart, chest left glowing as it settles back in, watching, waiting, the gargoyle with its talons so sharp, watching, waiting for eternity to end.

 

And Larry gasps.

 

“Shit,” Cliff yelps, hand slipping away from Larry’s, and he’s back on his feet in an instant. “You’re back,”

 

Larry takes a deep breath, holding himself up with an arm, and a hand on his chest, baby blue fading. “Yeah,” He says, weary and sad, “Yeah.” 

 

There’s a long pause where nothing happens, Larry stabilizes his breathing, and Cliff simply stands there, arms at his sides.

 

“Well,” Cliff eventually says, gesturing to the door with his thumb, “Since you’re alright, I guess I’ll just, uh, go.”

 

When Cliff turns to go, something pulls him back. He looks back, and Larry has his hand around his, bandages against metal. 

 

“Cliff,” Larry mumbles, just loud enough to be heard, “I could hear you,” 

 

“Oh.” Is all Cliff says, and Larry pulls him closer. 

 

Larry inhales, then exhales, chest rising, chest falling,

 

“I do love you,” He says, voice gentle and shaky, but he says it. “I love you, and I wouldn’t change a thing about you,” 

 

Cliff can’t cry, but he wants to. 

 

“Will you stay with me?” Larry asks, gripping Cliff’s hand a little bit tighter. 

 

So Cliff sits down on the bed right next to Larry, hands on his knees. 

 

Larry reaches over, putting a hand on Cliff’s cheek, turning Cliff’s head to him. Larry leans in, and so does Cliff, no way to actually kiss, but they try, pressing their faces together.

 

“I’m sorry,” Larry whispers, “If it seemed like I didn’t care, I don’t want this to be a one-night thing, I need you, Cliff,”

 

Cliff doesn’t respond, because he feels like he can’t.

 

“I’ll keep saying it until you believe me,” Larry says, “I love you, Cliff, I love you so much,” 

 

Cliff reaches out, and so slowly and gently, he pulls Larry into a hug, head against Larry’s shoulder. He can’t cry, and he’s shaking, so he holds Larry against him, because it’s all he can do. He pulls Larry into his lap, and Larry returns the embrace, arms around Cliff tight and tighter. 

 

“I love you,” Larry repeats, again and again, voice quieter each time until it’s nothing more than a mumble against Cliff, “I love you,”

 

Cliff rocks gently back and forth, arms around Larry, he hides his face.

 

“I love you, too,” He finally says, voice like a croak, “I love you, Larry,”

 

Larry pulls away, and Cliff’s hands drift to Larry’s waist. Larry pushes his goggles up, tugging them off and letting them fall onto the ground. He wraps a hand around the lapel of his coat, taking a long breath before shrugging it off. The suspenders go next, and then his hands go to his face. 

 

Unravelling, and unravelling the bandages go, and soon, Cliff and Larry are seeing each other face to face. To most, Larry Trainor would be unrecognizable, but to Cliff, looking into Larry’s eyes, it’s still him, still perfect.

 

Larry’s back on his feet, still facing Cliff, eyes on the ground as he fiddles with his turtleneck. He sighs, and tugs the turtleneck off over his head, discarding it on the floor without a second thought.

 

“That’s a lot of bandages,” Cliff remarks.

 

“Thanks,” Larry responds, “It’s to stop the radiation from killing everyone around me.”

 

“Alright, Captain Moodkiller, thanks for making things awkward.” 

 

Larry smiles as he slips off his fingerless gloves. “That’s my job,” 

 

Larry’s eyes drift to his chest, fingers under the brim of the black binder around him. Cliff tilts his head slightly, noticing Larry’s apprehensiveness. 

 

“Larry,” Cliff says, “Are you alright?”

 

Back on his feet, Cliff approaches Larry, who avoids eye contact. “It’s been a long, long time since, well, anybody has seen me. I’m just nervous, is all,” 

 

Cliff nods. “Yeah, I know what you mean. I don’t want you to feel weird about this, Lar,”

 

Cliff shrugs off his leather jacket, and Larry gives him a strange look. 

 

“What are you doing?” He asks. 

 

Cliff tugs his t-shirt off, nearly getting it stuck over his head. As he throws it down, he responds. “Getting naked, too. What’s it look like?”

 

“Uh.” Is all Larry says. 

 

“So you don’t have to feel weird, or anything.” 

 

“Cliff, I appreciate it, but-” 

 

Cliff’s taking his pants off.

 

“Nope, already made up my mind. If you’re naked, then so am I.”

 

Larry has to appreciate the enthusiasm? 

 

So, Larry sucks in a deep breath, and lifts his binder, nearly getting stuck in it in the process, but soon enough, it’s off.

 

“Nice pecs,” Cliff says. 

 

“What?” Larry responds, absolutely astonished.

 

“Is that the right word?” Cliff asks. “Sorry.”

 

“No, no,” Larry blurts out, “It’s fine, it’s just,” He actually begins to laugh, putting a hand on Cliff’s chest. “God, I love you,” 

 

Larry leans forward and presses a kiss against Cliff’s jaw.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Cliff responds, “Love you, too, Lar,” 

 

Larry shucks off the last piece of clothing he has, and then he’s completely bare.

 

“I’m gonna say it again, that is a lot of bandages.” 

 

“Cliff, shut up,” 

 

“Sorry.”

 

Cliff tugs off his ripped jeans, and then they’re standing together surrounded by their discarded clothes. Cliff takes a small step forward. 

 

“Do you need help getting out of those bandages?” He asks. Larry raises a brow.

 

“Are you trying to flirt?” Larry responds. 

 

Rubbing the back of his neck, Cliff shrugs. “Is it working?” 

 

Larry begins to unravel himself. “Yeah, sure, I’m swooning.” 

 

“So, uh, how long does it usually take for you to,” Cliff gestures towards Larry. “Do that?”

 

Larry sighs. “Awhile.” 

 

“And you have to do that a lot?” 

 

“Yeah.” 

 

“Damn.” 

 

So, Cliff waits, and Larry continues on, unwrapping and unwrapping, bandages yellowed by age soon pooling onto the ground, growing more and more exposed, Larry goes slow, and Cliff’s okay with that. Skin just as scarred as Larry’s face becomes more and more visible, and Cliff notices Larry’s growing anxiety.

 

“Does it hurt? Your skin, I mean.” Cliff eventually asks. 

 

“No, not anymore,” Larry responds, voice quiet like a hushed whisper, “I don’t like talking about it.” 

 

Cliff nods. “Hey. I get it. Don’t worry.” 

 

“Thanks,” 

 

Eventually, Larry’s chest is bare, and Larry keeps his eyes on the ground, shoulders slouched. Cliff steps forward, and Larry’s caught off guard as Cliff puts a hand on his waist.

 

“Hey, handsome,” He says, chest against chest. “You come here often?”

 

“Cliff, this is my room.”

 

If Cliff could, he’d roll his eyes. He takes a step back. “Yeah, you’re no fun.”

 

Larry chuckles softly, and Cliff blinks, a gentle metallic click echoing through the room. His jaw slacks slightly, then closes. Cliff realizes he really likes the sound of Larry laughing. His gaze drifts downwards, then back to Larry’s face. 

 

“Can I touch you?” Cliff asks, nearly stuttering on his words. “I mean, it’s fine if you don’t want me to,” 

 

Larry stares, confused for a moment. He notices where Cliff’s gaze is on, and his mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

 

“Uh,” He croaks out, “Yes, go ahead,”

 

And this time, it’s Larry taking a small step forward. Cliff watches, and slowly lifts his hands. Cliff cups Larry’s chest softly, palms cold and metallic, Larry takes in a sharp breath.

 

“Sorry,” Cliff mumbles, “Do you want me to stop?”

 

Larry shakes his head. “No, no, ‘s just cold, don’t stop,” 

 

So, Cliff presses his mouth against Larry’s head, not a real kiss, but good enough. He continues kneading Larry’s chest carefully, knowing his grip’s strong enough to break through anything, so he’s gentle and tender, running his thumb over Larry’s nipple in a way that makes him gasp so quietly.

 

Cliff would smirk if he could. “You gonna be loud again, Lar?” 

 

“You just love teasing me,” Larry grunts, “Don’t you?”

 

“It’s just my favorite pastime, babe,” 

 

One hand still against Larry’s chest, the other drifting lower, lower, lower, grazing against Larry’s groin. He can’t feel, but that’s okay, because it’s for Larry. Larry softly grunts, putting a hand on Cliff’s chest and pushing slightly.

 

“Wait,” Larry says, and Cliff freezes, “Help me get the rest of these bandages off.”

 

“Okay, Lar,” Cliff responds, so calm and caring.

 

Cliff takes Larry’s hand, guiding him back to the bed, sitting Larry down first, then settling down next to him, hand in hand, Larry watches with intrigue as Cliff carefully unwraps his arm, room still dark, red eyes that should be intimidating are a comfort, and Cliff seems so focused on being as gentle as he can as he unravels the bandages more and more, so intimately, so tenderly, Cliff knows there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than here, unravelling and unravelling piece by piece. He knows Larry’s anxious, self-conscious, thinking he’s imperfect, ruined forever.

 

Cliff wouldn’t change a thing about Larry, just as Larry wouldn’t change a thing about him. Cliff presses his jaw against the side of Larry’s face. “Quit looking so sad, Lar,” The last bit of bandages come off of Larry’s arm, and Cliff gives Larry’s hand a squeeze. 

 

Back on his feet, Cliff takes Larry’s other hand, and kneels, beginning to unravel the bandages again, from the shoulder to the fingers, Cliff goes slower this time, layer by layer, the bandages fall to the ground more and more, and Cliff keeps his eyes set on his work. Larry watches closely, chest rising, chest falling. 

 

With both arms bare, Cliff looks up at Larry, and Larry leans forward, cupping Cliff’s face, Larry kisses Cliff’s jaw softly, and begins to scoot further on the bed, and Cliff follows, climbing onto the bed, hovering over Larry. 

 

“Hi there,” Larry says, hands still on Cliff’s face. Cliff runs his hand over Larry’s thigh, and up his waist. 

 

“Hey.” Cliff replies. 

 

Cliff leans back, sitting on his knees. Hands drift down against the last amount of bandages still around Larry. So, Cliff gets to work, fingers grazing against Larry’s stomach, he unravels more and more, leaning forward to press his jaw against Larry’s chest, in between his breasts, a kiss for his heart. Larry sits up, eyes heavy-lidded. 

 

“I love you, Cliff,” Larry says. Cliff sits back up, still unravelling Larry’s bandages. 

 

“Love you, too, babe,” He says.

 

More and more exposed, Cliff continues unravelling and unravelling, and Larry watches. 

 

When the last amount of bandages fall to the ground, Cliff sits up, hands on his lap. 

 

“There you are,” He muses. “Hi, good-looking,”

 

Larry scoots up, back against the headboard, and Cliff begins to climb up to get closer, and soon, Larry stops him, a hand against his chest.

 

“Cliff, wait,” He says, so Cliff waits. “Switch places with me,” 

 

Cliff tilts his head. “Alright, you’re the boss,” 

 

So, they switch places, and soon Larry’s hovering over Cliff.

 

“I, uh,” Larry stutters, “Let me take care of you, this time,” 

 

Cliff stares. “What?”

 

“Just,” Larry whispers, leaning closer and closer in. “Let me do this,”

 

Larry presses a kiss against Cliff’s jaw, then lower, then lower, Cliff tilts his head to the side, and Larry continues on, gentle, tender, but Cliff couldn’t know that.

 

“You know I can’t feel you, Lar,” Cliff eventually says, voice quiet and mumbly. 

 

“Yeah, I know,” Larry murmurs against Cliff’s chest. Fingers graze against the bolts lining each metallic plate, feeling every scratch and scar. “I love you,” He whispers, “I really do,” Hands drift across Cliff’s arms. “You’re perfect,” 

 

Cliff laughs. “You trying to make me cry, Lar?” 

 

“No,” Larry says, “Just speaking my mind,” 

 

Cliff’s arms remain still, hands over his head, and he watches intently every little thing Larry does to him. He wants to feel everything, Larry’s lips against his chest, his face, hands on his shoulders, face, waist, but he can’t. All he can do it watch, hands over his head, intrigued. 

 

Larry braces himself on Cliff’s shoulders, and lowers himself, grinding his groin against Cliff’s, gasping and grunting, and Cliff watches, red eyes glowing through the dark room. Larry kisses the spot where Cliff’s collarbone would be, and Cliff reaches for Larry’s face. So gently, Larry takes it, hand around Cliff’s wrist, and putting it back where it was, above Cliff’s head, and Cliff lets him. 

 

“Alright, Captain, you’ve got me trapped under you,” 

 

Years of solitude, years of never touching, and Larry could never get off, grinding, touching, nothing really worked. Maybe it was the frustration, or the stress, but it could never get Larry to completion.

 

Now, hovering over Cliff, he feels exhilarated, alive, even.

 

He keeps rubbing against Cliff, cold, cold metal that feels just right, head hung low, mouth opened, gasping and groaning, hands wrapped around Cliff’s wrists, and Cliff watches intently. Cliff shifts his hand around, signaling for Larry to let go, and he does, his hand wrapping itself in the bed sheets. Now freed, Cliff reaches out, cupping Larry’s chest again, cold metal against flesh, thumb pressing against his nipple, and Larry surges forward, a loud moan as he grinds down, and Cliff thrusts up, still watching, unable to feel, but loving everything done to him. Larry presses open-mouthed kisses against Cliff’s chest, his jaw, his neck, lips against cold metal. 

 

Cliff’s not used to this. 

 

Larry really does love him.

 

“You look real nice right now, Lar,” Cliff mumbles, “Real nice.” 

 

“God,” Larry shudders, leaning into Cliff’s touch, grip tightening against Cliff’s other hand. 

 

As Cliff watches, and watches, hand kneading Larry’s chest, watching Larry moan against him, Cliff finds himself aroused, no way to alleviate this, so he watches, Larry fucking himself against Cliff’s groin.

 

Larry keeps himself quiet, groaning softly against Cliff’s chest, metal warming, slicker and slicker, but still cold, so he shudders and shivers, grinding harder and harder against Cliff, who thrusts up in sync with Larry. 

 

“Fuck, Larry,” Cliff says, “I wish I could feel you,” 

 

Larry’s whines are soft, yet higher and higher they go, faster and faster against Cliff, flesh against metal, hot breath against Cliff’s chest. Cliff’s hand drifts from Larry’s chest, lower and lower, palming Larry’s groin, and Larry throws his head forward, jaw clenched, grinding his teeth together to keep himself quiet, he grinds himself against Cliff’s hand, and Larry feels like he’s on fire. Cliff’s index finger crooks into him, and he gasps. 

 

Baby blue electricity surges through Larry, head thrown back, a moan rips out of his throat, and Cliff pushes his hand harder against Larry, finger fucking Larry, Larry’s chest glows blue and bluer.

 

Larry lets go of Cliff’s wrist, and his arms wrap themselves around Cliff’s neck, and Cliff freezes, chest against chest, his hand is pulled away from Larry, now on Larry’s back, the other hand wrapping itself in the sheets, threatening to rip, electricity surges through him, through both of them, and Cliff throws his head back, hitting against the headboard, and he moans.

 

“Fuck,” Cliff gasps, “Larry, please,” 

 

He feels everything at once, baby blue against bronze, flicker flicker light, Cliff moans, he feels every little thing Larry’s doing to him, grinding against his groin, feeling it like he was a man again, Cliff thrusts his hips forward against Larry’s.

 

“Please, Larry, please,” 

 

Larry didn’t expect Cliff to be so loud.

 

He moans louder, louder, writhing in the bed under Larry, rutting against each other harder and harder, Larry presses his lips against Cliff’s jaw, slacked open as Cliff continues digging his fingers into the sheets, the bed squeaking more and more under them, baby blue burning brighter and brighter.

 

“Larry,” Cliff repeats again and again, “God,” 

 

Voice louder and louder, and static fills his speech more and more.

 

Slamming against each other one last time, and Cliff shatters, crying out with his head thrown back, fingers tighter and tighter around the sheets, baby blue burns brighter against him, and Larry grinds down one last time, arms tight around Cliff’s neck, moaning, shuddering more and more against Cliff, finishing against him, electricity surging, surging, dying down, blue light fading.

 

Larry pants, trying to catch his breath, arms weak and shaking, he shuts his eyes, chest rising, chest falling. 

 

Cliff lays, not needing to breathe, but twitching, shocked. 

 

Eventually, Cliff blinks. “Did,” He manages to say, “Did that happen?” 

 

Larry rolls off of Cliff, managing to stay on the bed, but since Cliff takes up too much space, he has to squeeze close. He throws an arm around Cliff’s chest. “Yeah,” He breathes out.

 

Cliff snakes an arm under Larry, hand on his back. “Fuck,” He says, “You should’ve told me you had,” Cliff has no idea how to describe what just happened. “Sex powers.” 

 

Larry gives him a strange look. “Sex powers?” And then he laughs. “You have such a way with words, Cliff.” He pauses. “I have no idea how that worked, and I’m not going to ask.” 

 

“Yeah,” Cliff responds. “Probably for the best.”

 

So, they lay like that for awhile, arms around each other loosely.

 

And then, in the morning, the room seems a little brighter, the thick metal walls around them less menacing.

 

Cliff helps Larry rewrap the bandages around him, carefully and slowly, Cliff knows there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than with Larry. 

 

As Cliff wraps Larry’s hand, he looks up from his work. 

 

“Do you want to do anything after this? Like a date, or something?” Cliff asks. 

 

Long ago, with a woman Cliff can’t remember in a cheap motel room, he asked if she wanted to see each other again, and she said no, long ago, Cliff Steele had sex for fun, no feelings attached, because that’s all anybody ever wanted from him. Now, as he continues wrapping Larry’s arm up so carefully, he knows things will get better. Turning to God, Cliff says ‘Fuck you, I’m going to be happy,’

 

So, here with Larry, he asks Larry if he’d like to go on a date, not scared anymore.

 

Larry chuckles. “A date?” 

 

“Yeah,” Cliff replies, “Maybe watch a movie, go somewhere, or we could just have more sex, whatever floats your boat,” 

 

Larry nods. “Okay, Cliff. I’ll go on a date with you.” 

 

Cliff wants to smile. “Great! I mean, cool, cool.” 

 

Larry does the smiling for him, warm and kind, and Cliff thinks it’s a handsome smile. “Does this mean we’re dating, Cliff?” 

 

Cliff blinks, and his jaw slacks a bit.

 

“Is that what you want?” Cliff asks, head tilted, voice so sincere and loving, Larry can’t stop smiling.

 

“Yeah,” Larry replies, putting a hand over Cliff’s hand. “I do want that.” 

 

And soon, when they finish up bandaging Larry’s chest, standing in the middle of discarded clothes, Cliff hugs Larry tightly, old and older, damaged and healing, calling each other ‘boyfriend’. 

 

Later in the day, Cliff knocks on everyone’s doors. ‘Team meeting’, he says, and when everyone’s gathered in the living room, Rita sits with her ankles crossed, hands in her lap, and Jane lays on the couch, leg thrown over the back, and Vic stands, arms crossed, Cliff fake coughs into his fist.

 

“What is this about, Cliff?” Vic asks. 

 

Larry steps into the room, standing next to Cliff. 

 

“We’re dating.” Larry announces, wrapping a hand around Cliff’s. 

 

Jane looks at Rita, and Rita looks at Vic. 

 

“Yeah, no shit,” Jane says. “Did you seriously call a meeting just to announce you’re fucking each other?”

 

Rita furrows her brow. “Now, Jane, don’t be so crude. They love each other very much. I am proud of their bravery.”

 

Jane rolls her eyes. “I’m gonna be honest, if they don’t learn to love each other a little quieter, I’m going to kill them.” 

 

Vic opens his mouth, and then closes it.

 

Rita grimaces. “It’s just young love, Jane,”

 

Jane gestures at the two, “They’re old men, Rita!” 

 

Vic finally speaks up.

 

“Well,” He says, “I’m happy for them, despite, uh, yeah,” 

 

Larry and Cliff both want to die right now, but they’re together, holding hands like two shy teenagers. 

 

Jane pushes herself out of the couch. “Alright, I’m out,” 

 

“Uh,” Cliff says, “Bye, Jane,” 

 

Jane waves. “Seeya, pillow princess,” 

 

Vic covers his mouth, and Rita holds her head in her hand. 

 

Larry pauses, and then turns to Cliff. “Pillow princess?” 

 

“Okay, yeah, we’re leaving, too. Bye, Rita, bye, Vic,” Cliff says, urging Larry to leave with him. 

 

Something that would’ve terrified Larry, when Cliff and Larry slip out of the room, Larry finds himself laughing, hand still around Cliff’s. 

 

They go on that date, to the movies on Danny Street.

 

Cliff keeps his arm around Larry, and Larry leans against him, neither afraid of the future. They know it’ll be okay. There’s nowhere else they’d rather be. 

 

“I love you,” Cliff says.

 

“I love you, too,” Larry responds. 

 

And that’s all that matters.

 

Hand around hand, flesh against metal, still perfect, far from the days of a cheap motel room, cigarettes left burning in an ashtray. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
